


Secrets Kept

by SunflowerSupreme



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cirdan and Maglor should start the 'my adopted kid is an idiot' club, Elrond means well but it doesn’t end well, Gen, Gil-Galad Elrond and Celebrimbor should start a 'our dad’s are pretty bad at this' club, I didn’t mean for this to turn into a story about Gil-Galad’s daddy issues but here we are., Maglor and Cirdan as bitter drinking buddies, Misbehaving Celebrimbor (he's not even here just causing trouble from afar), Misbehaving half elf, Multi, Theres no drama like Finwean Family Drama, they invented the 'take a shot every time someone doesn't listen to elrond' game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Elrond has moved out of the Palace in Lindon and it seems to be simply a matter of growing independence.Most of Lindon assumes that Elrond is hiding a girlfriend, but the truth is far darker and more likely to cause trouble.(don't read the summary, read the tags, they're far more entertaining)





	1. Chapter 1

He still wasn’t sure what he thought of Elrond moving out of the palace.

He had, of course, told his herald that he was more than welcome to live wherever it pleased him, but what pleased Elrond and what pleased Gil-Galad were two very different things.

“Am I being unreasonable?” Gil-Galad glanced at Cirdan, half hoping that the elder elf (who he looked to as a father, even if Cirdan stubbornly insisted he was no such thing) would make the decision for him.

“Perhaps. As much as Celebrimbor might be your beloved cousin he is still your subject, and in too important of a position as the leader of the Gwaith-i-Mirdan to go galavanting off whenever it pleases him.”

Gil-Galad paused, tea lifted partway to his mouth. Celebrimbor? Since when were they discussing Celebrimbor? It took him a long moment to recall the letter they’d received that morning from Eregion, which was meant to be an official correspondence between the two kingdoms but had been comprised largely of Celeborn’s complaints that the Smith kept disappearing to visit dwarves.“That is not what I was referring to.”

“Ah.” For a moment Cirdan said nothing, and Gil-Galad assumed he must have figured out what the king was referring to and was considering what advice to offer. Instead, Cirdan said, “Close your mouth. It’s unbecoming of a king to gape.”

Gil-Galad snapped his jaw shut and sat his forgotten teacup down with more force than was needed.

“Much better, now, to what matter is it that you believe yourself to be unreasonable?” Cirdan glanced across the desk, eyeing the piles of missives and official correspondence. Somehow, his gaze skipped straight over Elrond’s empty chair.

Gil-Galad gave the chair a seething look, and Cirdan finally seemed to understand. “Ah, our missing guest.”

“He’s not a guest! He lives here!”

“As of last week, it seems he does not.”

As though Gil-Galad needed reminding. “That is exactly the problem!” Elrond had, in fact, purchased the small house in Lindon’s residential quarter a month previously. It had come completely out of the blue, but the herald had said he had fallen in love with the place and hadn’t been able to risk missing it. He had only taken up residence there the week before, although he still came to the palace on a daily basis to perform his duties.

“You are his king,” Cirdan reminded him, and for a moment Gil-Galad assumed he was going to launch into an explanation that Elrond, while a distant relative, was technically only one of Gil-Galad’s large staff. An employee. Instead Cirdan offered, “if you wish him to live in the palace, you need only order it.”

As though the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I am not going to order him to live in the palace!”

“Then in what way are you being unreasonable?”

“Because I wish to!”

“That is hardly unreasonable, you’ve never responded well to change.”

Of course he didn’t respond well to change, he was sick and tired of people up and leaving him. But Gil-Galad ignored the jab and instead took a large gulp of his now tepid tea.

“Perhaps he has finally found himself a lady friend and wishes to spend private time with her.”

“There is no reason he could not do that here!”

Cirdan raised an eyebrow, pouring himself another cup of tea. “Of course, it’s not as though his last attempt at a relationship ended poorly on your behalf. What was it the lady said? Cultural differences I believe?”

“That was not my fault.” It wasn’t, or at least, that was what Gil-Galad continued to tell himself. He hadn’t known that the woman was within hearing range when he’d made several lewid remarks to Elrond about her. Alright, fair. It probably was his fault.

“Hmm.”

“I am not at all pleased with this you know,” Gil-Galad grumbled.

“I do not know what it is you wish me to do about it.”

 _Fix it_ , Gil-Galad thought bitterly. It was unkingly - and, more importantly, merely unfair - for him to be so angry with his friend. It was not as though Elrond had moved to spite him, it had had no affect so far on the man’s duties, nothing was falling apart, and the city was still running beautifully.

But Gil-Galad was still sour.

“What would you do, were you in my situation?”

“Leave it be.”

Gil-Galad huffed. That was easier said than done. “He does not look well,” he said, trying a different angle, “you have seen him.” It was true, Elrond hadn’t seemed the same since his move, always seeming tired and often lost in thought. Even with that, there was still no impact on his work ethic, if anything, it was better than before. 

“Perhaps he is stressed, knowing that his actions have caused you pain.” 

“Do not blame this on me.”

“Do not blame it all on Elrond.”

The two settled into an uneasy silence, one that Elrond, who usually tempered their debates, was not there to solve. It wasn’t that Gil-Galad and Cirdan bickered often, just that they were both strongly opinionated and had two very different minds. Elrond had always been there to bridge the gap between them, but since he had moved he had no longer attended their evening gatherings.

“I am concerned for him.”

“You are concerned for yourself.” Cirdan’s tone had hardened, holding an edge that it rarely did, even during their disagreements. “You have created a world in your head in which everyone who does not wait on you hand and foot is going to leave you, where being abandoned is an eventuality intead of a possibility.”

“This is not about Findekano!”

“You are applying your childhood woes to your friend, and forgetting that his are perhaps far worse.”

Gil-Galad stood abruptly, anger flashing in his mind. How dare Cirdan throw his -or Elrond’s - childhood at him? He thought that he’d made it clear that neither were topics for discussion.

“I was not aware that this was a competition. Shall we invite Celebrimbor to join us in our woes?” He swept toward the door, fully intending to leave Cirdan without another word, but he stopped at the door, unable to resist saying, “I could not expect you to understand, as you’ve never had a parent.”

Cirdan watched him go, and Gil-Galad was already out of earshot when he murmured, “No, but I’ve been a parent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon that Celebrimbor was around when Gil was a kid and they bonded over family issues.
> 
> I didn’t mean for this to turn into a story about Gil-Galad’s daddy issues, but here we are.
> 
> Gil-Galad, Elrond, and Celebrimbor should start an “our dads were pretty bad at this” club.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's not obvious, Fingon is Gil-Galad's dad for this because that's what is in the published Silmarillion (also the dude in the movies is really good looking and the black hair only works if he's Fingon's son).

As the first rays of sunlight streamed into his quarters, Gil-Galad groaned and resisted the urge to draw the curtains around his bed.

There was no cheerful voice wishing him a good morning, no good-natured teasing that he was going to sleep through breakfast or that someone else was going to eat all the pastries. No, the servant who had taken over Elrond’s role of waking the king (not that it had ever been his official duty, it was just something he had done) was silent as he opened the curtains and then left.

 _You are being petulant and quite unfair to Elrond_ , he told himself sternly. Another voice in his head responded _Elrond is being petulant and quite unfair to you_.

He sighed and sat up, a sharp pain stabbing through his head and his stomach rolling uncomfortably. The night before had been…. a mistake. 

After storming out of his evening tea with Cirdan, Gil-Galad hadn’t retreated to his room as he ought to have. Instead, he had stopped first by the wine cellars, helping himself to a bit more than he should have, before slinking back to his room to drink and sulk in peace.

A part of him had hoped (assumed) that Cirdan would follow after him. The shipwright usually did, not liking to leave words left unsaid. So it had been an unpleasant surprise when, instead of having his old friend find him only slightly tipsy and take pity on him, Gil-Galad had managed to sulk and drink himself to sleep.

Was that manipulative? Possibly, but at least it had backfired spectacularly. 

He managed to haul himself out of bed and make his way into his bathing chambers, splashing water over his face as he grumbled and sighed. Starting a day with a hangover was never good.

 

* * *

 

Elrond was already at breakfast when Gil-Galad arrived, deep in conversation with the man next to him. Cirdan was, at first glance, nowhere in sight, but upon further examination he was revealed to be sitting at the opposite end of the room, clearly ignoring the king.

A wonderful start to his day.

He sat alone at his usual seat and ate in silence, trying not to appear too brooding or as though he was too focused on Elrond. The half-elf, he noted bitterly, still appeared tired and worn, with bags under his eyes and a caffeinated drink in front of him. Whatever was at Elrond’s house - girlfriend, boyfriend, or an abnormally needy cat - it was doing his herald no good. He was going to need to fix it, but in order to do that, he needed to know exactly what ‘it’ was.

The king finished his breakfast with newfound vigor, determined to put his plan into motion (and, hopefully, win back his friend in the process).

He made his way up to his study, hoping to be the first one there, but he was not surprised to find out that Cirdan had arrived first.

The king, the Herald, and the shipwright all had desks within the spacious office, cubbies filled with their own possessions and things they needed to complete their work.

Gil-Galad’s always managed to be the messiest of the three, despite Elrond’s regular attempts to clean it (the fact that he hadn’t straightened it yet that week was yet another thing that worried Gil-Galad). The king filled his area with an assortment of mementos, most of which had to do with the founding and building of Lindon: old maps, geographic surveys, and a splinter of wood from the first house they had built in the settlement. A prototype of Aeglos was propped in the corner and the first dagger he had ever owned sat on his desk, now too worn to be used as anything but a letter opener. The only thing that even hinted at his parentage was a golden hair ribbon that Celebrimbor had encased in a glass gem for him.

Cirdan’s workspace reflected what he spent most of his time working on: shipbuilding. He had models of ships (including a rather sad and lopsided one that Gil-Galad had made when he was a child, which he was sure Cirdan kept to humiliate him), tide charts, ropes for practicing knots, and all manner of sketching equipment. An astrolabe sat at the edge of his desk, and star charts covered the walls. He had no parentage to show off, no famliy line to celebrate, instead having a painting of Ulmo, whom he considered to be something of a benefactor, propped up with a compass.

Elrond had a map of Numenor above his desk, although, depending on his mood (which seemed to change depending on how close they were to the anniversary of Elros’ death) it was sometimes covered. His shelves were covered in bottles of dried herbs, each one carefully labeled with its name and use. One entire shelf was labeled “safe for tea” after Gil-Galad had once nearly poisoned them all. Piled around the herbs were anatomical sketches and a few animal bones (at least, he claimed they were animals and Gil-Galad preferred to believe him). He also had sketches of people he had met and places he had been, including at least one, tucked out of sight, that depicted Maedhros and Maglor. Like Gil-Galad, there was little that reflected his birth family, save a small Star of Earendil that he had had since childhood, shoved to the back of a shelf.

Cirdan was sitting on his desk, weaving a complicated pattern out of rope, and he didn’t look up when the king entered.

“Did you see Elrond at breakfast this morning?” Gil-Galad asked by way of greeting.

Cirdan frowned, although that might have been because he was attempting to focus on his knot making. “I am aware he was there.”

“He appeared tired.”

Again there was a pause as Cirdan twisted two ropes together. “Your obsession with him is…. worrisome.”

“I am not obsessed.”

“Paranoia then."

“There is something he is not telling us!” Gil-Galad stomped to Cirdan’s desk, standing in front of it with his arms crossed.

The shipwright still did not look up, although the knot appeared convoluted enough that Gil-Galad forgave him. “He is permitted his secrets unless you would accuse him of breaking the law.”

“Elrond would sooner stab himself in the foot than break a law.”

“And that is what we like about him. He is even-tempered and thoughtful.” Cirdan frowned, flipping his knot over. “A good counter to you.”

Gil-Galad narrowed his eyes. “I am telling you-”

“I am telling you that you are being childish and unfair.”

He ignored the shipwright's point, continuing on, “there is a simple way to solve this.”

“I do not where this might be going, Erenion.”

“It would not be remiss of us to throw a house warming party for Elrond, would it?”

Cirdan finally looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “It would be remiss if you are planning to invite yourself into his house.”

“I-”

Cirdan interrupted him, speaking more loudly than he usually did. “Ah yes, good morning.” The shipwright looked past Gil-Galad, offering Elrond, who had just entered the room, a smile.

It was a testament to how little Elrond was paying attention that the Herald didn’t seem to notice that they had just been speaking about him. Usually, Elrond was far too perceptive in those matters.

“What did I say?” Gil-Galad hissed after Elrond had greeted them both and went to his desk to start sorting through the king’s correspondence.

“I thought I had told you to leave the poor boy alone.”

Gil-Galad returned to his desk, stopping by Elrond’s long enough to swipe a jar of herbs he knew worked as a hangover cure. The half elf just shook his head.

They lapsed into silence, each working on his own work, Gil-Galad focusing more on the cup in his hands than the reports he was meant to be reading. Instead, he found himself watching Cirdan tying knots, something he had enjoyed ever since he had been a child. It was cathartic watching the shipwright work, and it had often been the only way to coax a younger Gil-Galad into behaving. 

“Erenion.” Elrond’s voice jerked him from his memories. The Herald was standing in front of him, holding out a letter. “Celebrimbor sent this, we must have overlooked it yesterday.” The corners of his lips quirked up in a smile. “It seems to be his side of his disagreement with Lord Celeborn.”

“A good amusement then,” Gil-Galad responded, taking the folded parchment with a grin. Any letter from Celebrimbor promised to be amusing, as his cousin had a tendency to narrate odd stories, change subjects frequently, ramble about whatever suited his fancy, and had once included a four-page story about a disagreement between a dwarf and a bird.

“Yes.” Elrond’s sharp eyes flicked to the cup that Gil-Galad had set aside in favor of the letter. “Are you well?”

“I am,” he replied. “And yourself? You seem…. Tired recently.”

Behind Elrond, Cirdan set his knots aside and gave the king a hard look.

Elrond’s demeanor changed, becoming uneasy. “Oh, it is just- moving has taken a lot out of me.”

“I am more than happy to assist you.”

His reply was immediate. “That won’t be necessary. I am nearly through.”

“Good,” Cirdan called from across the room, butting into the conversation. “Then we can look forward to having you back to your old self again soon.”

“Yes.” Elrond’s smile seemed forced, and he quickly retreated back to his desk.

Cirdan and Gil-Galad exchanged two very different looks. The shipwright, clearly thinking the matter was resolved and Gil-Galad should stop touching it. The king, on the other hand, only felt further justified in his needling.

As they adjourned for lunch, Gil-Galad managed to be the last person in the room, Cirdan questioning Elrond about treatments for sailors maladies such as scurvy, sea sickness, and sunburn. Once they disappeared out of the room, Gil-Galad made his way to the half elf’s desk, hoping to have found some clue as to what was troubling him.

He had finished sorting through Gil-Galad’s correspondence and had moved on to working on more of his anatomical sketches. Although it seemed his mind had wandered partway through: beside a sketch of a knee with torn and labeled ligaments and a fractured bone was one of a minstrel sprawled on a couch with a harp. Gil-Galad recognized the man immediately, even though he’d only met him in person once, but he matched perfectly with Maglor from the sketch of the last two sons of Feanor that Elrond kept with his drawing supplies.

Gil-Galad frowned, worrying over what could have reminded Elrond of his captors/fathers, and followed his friends to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil-Galad: I have an idea!  
> Cirdan: No more ideas!!
> 
> (crackfic idea: every time Gil-Galad comes up with a bad plan, Cirdan sprays him with a water bottle like a misbehaving cat)


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed that Gil-Galad was not going to manage to get himself an invitation to Elrond’s house. He had all but outright suggested it, and each time either Elrond or Cirdan would change the subject, the latter of the two giving Gil-Galad firm looks each time.

Several more days had passed, letters had been sent to both Celebrimbor and Celeborn asking them in a polite yet firm way to behave and leave one another well enough alone, and yet Elrond was still not himself. 

“Perhaps he is tired because he knows he is distressing you,” Cirdan said one evening after Elrond had left for the day.

“What do you mean by that?” Gil-Galad asked, peering over the rim of his teacup.

“I mean that Elrond has to have become aware of the pain his absence is causing you and that he no doubt feels a not inconsiderable amount of guilt over it.”

“Then he should allow me to help him.”

To his surprise, Cirdan backed down, shaking his head and muttering, “I am not going to win this one, am I?”

“No. You are not.”

* * *

It was a warm afternoon, two weeks to the day since Elrond had moved out of the palace when Gil-Galad went hunting for his home. He had made sure that both Cirdan and Elrond were busy for the afternoon and claimed he had to handle something in the barracks.

He had gotten the address off the official tax record from the purchase and then located the house on a map, all without ever altering Elrond to his plans. All in all, he was rather proud of himself.

The house was a simple one, two stories with a walled garden in the back, set against the edge of the city where you could no doubt hear the sea from inside. It seemed, to Gil-Galad, to be a very nice place and one he was sorry he was having to go behind his friend’s back to visit.

Though it was tempting to prowl around the outside and see if he could peer in a window, he knew that people would no doubt take notice, since it was the middle of the day and the sun was high in the sky, offering an unparalleled view of the grounds. He was, after all, the high king, and it would not do to be mistaken for a cat burglar. 

He supposed he might as well test Cirdan’s theory about Elrond having a girlfriend. Gil-Galad rapped on the door with his knuckles and was startled when a male voice called out, “The door is unlocked.” 

The scene inside was shockingly familiar. Maglor Feanorian was sprawled across a couch inside the door, one leg propped on a stool in front of him, lounging comfortably on a pile of cushions. It was the exact scene that Elrond had sketched at his desk. To his credit, the kinslayer was far less surprised to see his cousin than Gil-Galad was to see him.

“I wondered when you might be visiting, I asked Elrond, but he was rather elusive on the subject.” Maglor was just as Gil-Galad recalled him, tall, fine, and dressed in varying shades of blue (although, the king noted, his tunic was one he had seen Elrond wear several times before and several inches too short in the arms).

“Come inside and shut the door before someone sees me,” Maglor scolded, waving Gil-Galad in. “I doubt your subjects will take well to my presence.”

Gil-Galad almost asked why he was supposed to take so well to his presence, but something kept the question from slipping out. Instead, he entered the home, shutting the door and letting Maglor lead the conversation. It took no persuasion, Maglor was always happy to talk.

“I am grateful of course.” Maglor tilted his head, watching as Gil-Galad surveyed the room. “No many would allow a Feanorian into their city, even one so injured as I.” At those words, Maglor motioned to the leg he had propped in front of him. “You have a kind heart.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, not knowing what else to say. It was easier to look at Maglor’s knee that risk meeting his face, suddenly wondering if there was a connection between the sketch of Maglor and that of the ruined knee that had been on the same paper. “Your leg?”

He had a charming smile. “If Elrond asks I fell.”

“And if I ask?”

Maglor shrugged. “Some mortal thought to pickpocket me. I fought him off, and, I suppose, fell in the process.”

“And you did not mention this to Elrond?”

“He has a soft spot for those wearing the colors of Numenor.”

“Ahh,” he brushed his hand over the bandages on Maglor’s knee and the Feanorian hissed in pain. “Apologies.”

“Don’t fret, I shan’t tell.”A conspiratorial wink.

Having Maglor sitting in front of him, just as he remembered, charming and kind with otherworldly grace, it was easy to see why Elrond adored him so. It was easy to remember why Gil-Galad had loved him as a child. So easy to forget how many innocents had died at Maglor’s blade. Gil-Galad stepped back sharply. 

Maglor watched him. “I don’t pretend to understand why you allowed Elrond’s request-”

“Request?”

“To allow me here, to heal.”

Oh. That request. That request that Gil-Galad was very certain had not happened. “Of course. Apologies, my mind has been, scattered.”

“I hope I have not caused you any undue stress,” Maglor said softly. “I shall be gone of course, as soon as I can walk on my own.” He shifted slightly, leaning back into his pillows. “I mean your people no harm, but I know I am far from welcome.”

Gil-Galad was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. “We have no Silmaril. I do not fear you, Kanofinwe.”

Silence fell between them, Maglor picking at a thread on his borrowed shirt. “I am afraid I am a rather poor host,” he said breaking the silence. “I would offer you tea, but I am afraid I cannot stand.”

“I can make tea,” Gil-Galad said quickly. At least it would give him an excuse to end the conversation and his brain a chance to catch up to everything.

“You do not have to.” But Maglor pointed through an open door, “The kitchen is that way. Do try not to feed us anything poisonous. I fear Elrond has yet to label everything.”

“Ah, he has told you of my nightshade tea?”

Maglor grinned.

It was easy enough to find all the ingredients for the tea, starting the water boiling over the kitchen fire. But what was not easy was to come to terms with what he had discovered. If he had written a list of all the things he might have found in Elrond’s house, Maglor Feanorian would have been on the list, but at the very bottom.

And what stung most of all, was that Maglor was so clearly convinced he had Gil-Galad’s permission to be there. That at least, said that Elrond had considered getting his permission and ultimately decided against it, then lied to Maglor anyway.

He would have given it, of course. He would not have been happy about it, but he would have given it freely. But that fact that Elrond had not even asked cut him deeply. Either Elrond did not trust him (he would not turn away an injured elf, even one such as Maglor) or the other simply didn’t care enough to ask.

The kettle whistled, interrupting his thoughts, and Gil-Galad glared at it.

He added the tea leaves in silence, carrying two cups out to the sitting room where Maglor was waiting. It was hard to imagine that the minstrel was happy about being confined to the house, the Feanorian had always enjoyed surrounding himself with people, basking in their attention.

Attention that everyone, including Elrond and now Gil-Galad, was happy to give him. It did not help that he was such an enjoyable person, so long as one looked past the murder.

Gil-Galad set the tea in front of Maglor, then glanced out into the garden at the sundial there. “I am afraid I lost track of time,” he said, “I am expected somewhere.”

If he didn’t show to dinner, Elrond and Cirdan would have a long list of questions for him, questions that he was not yet certain he knew how to answer.

“Of course,” Maglor said graciously. “You are always welcome here. Elrond tells me you enjoy escaping the palace. I confess I was alarmed you had not come sooner.”

“There was…. A small issue out of Eregion.”

Maglor frowned, his face wrought with worry. “Eregion? Celebrimbor lives there, does he not?” It seemed that Elrond had not told Maglor much about the goings on in the palace, if he had not at least mentioned the letters from Celebrimbor and Celeborn.

“He is fine, I assure you. He simply does not seem to play well with Celeborn.” At that, Maglor laughed, sipping his tea cheerfully.

“It is nice to have something that is not laced with sedatives,” he said after a moment, watching as Gil-Galad shifted the kettle around on the side table, making sure everything was well within the other’s reach. “Or pain draught or the like.”

“I am glad I could bring you joy, cousin,” Gil-Galad said, surprised by how truthful he was.

Maglor gave him a smile. “Do not fret yourself over me, I shall be gone before long.”

Gil-Galad gave him a tight-lipped smile and left.

Once the door was closed, he sat down on the stoop, his head swimming. _Elrond what have you done?_

He had been prepared for any number of things: Maglor was not on that list. But sitting on Elrond’s doorstep was not going to solve any of it, so he stood and strode back to the palace, deciding that, whatever it was, he would have to handle it later.

* * *

Dinner that night was an odd affair. Elrond sat to one side of him, Cirdan on the other, and the two talked as though nothing at all had changed. There was no hint, saving for the lingering exhaustion, that Elrond was hiding anything at all.

In fact, of the three, Gil-Galad was the most out of character, and both of them commented on it numerous times. “I am fine,” he lied. “I merely have a headache.”

“Have you been drinking again?” Elrond asked suspiciously.

 _If I have, it would be your fault_ , he thought darkly. Something of his emotions must have shown on his face because Elrond blinked in surprise. “No,” Gil-Galad said quickly. “I have merely had a long day.”

After supper, Elrond was annoying slow to leave, following after Gil-Galad and ensuring that he was going to be all right, offering to prepare something for his head or to help him sleep.

Gil-Galad finally managed to run him off and then he went searching for Cirdan.

The shipwright was in Gil-Galad’s sitting room, where they always took their evening tea, and he seemed rather surprised to see the king.

“I had assumed you would allow Elrond to fret over you as long as possible,” he remarked. “You have been so desperate for his company as of late.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Gil-Galad ignored his offer of tea, and instead went straight to the cupboard where he kept a small stash of wine. He poured a glass for each of them. “You will need it,” he said in response to a raised eyebrow from Cirdan.

Before Gil-Galad could tell Cirdan what he had found, the door flew open and Elrond burst inside. No doubt he had been home and met with Maglor, then. “I can explain,” he said breathlessly.

Cirdan, rather unsurprisingly, looked at Gil-Galad. “What have you done?” the Shipwright asked tiredly.


	4. Chapter 4

“Go,” Gil-Galad said, and Elrond’s heart nearly stopped. “Go home Elrond, we can talk in the morning.”

“I-”

“Go.”

He bowed low, then fled the room.

Elrond had known as soon as he had arrived at home that something was off. Maglor had been in a cheerful mood, the pain in his knee forgotten, and he had a cup of tea in his hands. Elrond had not given in the tea, and he knew for a fact that Maglor was incapable of getting up to prepare it himself.

“Our cousin is a fine man,” he said, “and not a bad cook.” Maglor had raised his glass and smiled at Elrond, saying, “He did not even poison me.”

“I forgot something at the palace,” Elrond had said, then turned on his heel and ran.

Upon returning home he stopped on the doorstep, neatening his hair and trying to hide any evidence of panic. Maglor was, predictably, still sprawled on his couch, but there was a hint of concern on his face. “Did something happen?” he asked.

Elrond shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. “What- what did Gil-Galad say?” Maglor had yet to bring up Elrond’s lie, had yet to point out that he did not, in fact, have permission to be there. And knowing Maglor, if the other knew what Elrond had done, he would leave the city, injured knee or no. The only conclusion that Elrond could draw from that, was that Gil-Galad must not have said anything.

“He merely asked how I was healing.” The minstrel shrugged and motioned to his knee. “I expressed my gratitude for being permitted here, of course.”

Several choice curses echoed through Elrond’s head, but he bit them back. At least Maglor didn’t seem to have worked it all out yet. That was concerning in and of it’s self of course, because few things excaped Maglor’s notice, but Elrond wrote it off as a side effect of his injury and the treatment.

“Let me prepare supper,” he muttered, hurrying past Maglor.

He was midway through throwing together a simple meal - we was a healer, not a cook, but at least Maglor was kind enough not to tease him - when a crash jarred him from his thoughts.

“Kano!”

Rushing back into the main room, he found Maglor sprawled across the floor, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

“What happened?” Elrond asked, kneeling beside Maglor and trying to help him back to the couch. The effort was in vain, as Maglor was clearly in too much pain to even manage the slightest assistance.

“I fell,” Maglor replied, leaning heavily into Elrond. His eyes were squeezed closed against yet another wave of pain.

“You fell?” Elrond repeated.

“Yes,” Maglor huffed. He leaned his head against Elrond’s shoulder, taking deep breaths to steady himself. Elrond rested his hand on Maglor's back, trying to offer him reassurance.

“Were you trying to stand?” the healer asked, unable to find it in himself to scold Maglor.

“Please stop speaking, its not helping the pain.” He hissed as Elrond reached to touch his knee. “I may have reinjured it.”

“Damn it.” Elrond rolled Maglor off of him, pushing him onto his back so he could get to the bandages on the minstrel’s knee. Maglor seemed beyond words, gasping in pain as he was shifted. Elrond rolled up the leg of his pants feeling his heart plummet at the sight of dark staining on the bandages.

“You’ve pulled your stitches,” he said slowly, reaching out to touch Maglor’s leg in shock. His fingers came away red. “No, no, no, no, no,” he murmured.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks,” Maglor offered, but it was a clear lie. 

“You fool!” Elrond burst out, feeling an unexplainable wave of anger explode from him. “What were you thinking!?”

Maglor said nothing, taking the verbal abuse. “You had no reason to get up! This could have set your healing back weeks!” Weeks they may not have, if Gil-Galad had learned about Maglor’s presence.

“Yes, I’m an idiot!” Maglor shouted back. His voice dropped back to a normal volume. “You may shout at me all you like later, but please-” That seemed to be all he was capable of saying, and he gasped and dug his nails into his palms. “Please.”

Elrond quieted, lowering his head. “I am sorry.” 

Maglor nodded, still struggling against the pain.

“Don’t speak,” Elrond urged. He was able, with no minor struggle, to get his arms under Maglor’s shoulders and pull the larger elf back onto the couch. To his credit, Maglor didn’t cry out the entire time.

Elrond stretched Maglor’s leg out where he could see it, gently unwinding the bandages. As he had feared, some of the stitches had come undone, and blood was seeping out of the wound.

He stood. “Let me get you a sedative. This will not be pleasant.”

Maglor dozed through the procedure, barely seeming aware of what was happening. Thankfully the only damage had been to the external stitches, all of the ones Elrond had put in ligament and muscle had remained intact. Elrond found it oddly relaxing, able to shut out everything that was going on around him and ignore his growing problems to focus on the comparatively simple task of stitching together flesh. If only his problems with Gil-Galad could be solved that easily.

His task completed, Elrond wiped the blood off on a rag, staring at his foster father’s worn face. “You are trouble, Kanofinwe,” he murmured, shaking his head. _And I am in trouble_.

* * *

Gil-Galad watched Elrond flee, then sunk into his chair. “Well,” Cirdan remarked, sipping his tea. “That was most interesting. I feel as though I am the only one who does not know what is happening in this city.”

“You may be.”

“Are you planning a surprise party for me?”

The king gave him an irked look. “No.”

“Pity.” Cirdan offered another cup to Gil-Galad, filling it with tea. “Well, if it is not a surprise party, then I must only assume it is the very thing that has been vexing you this past week.”

“It is.”

“What has Celebrimbor done now?”

Gil-Galad looked up. Cirdan was grinning (although he’d done an admirable job of trying to hide it in his tea cup). “It is not that cousin that is vexing me.”

“One of his uncles perhaps?” It was clearly meant to be a joke - no one in their right mind would expect one of the Sons of Feanor to be in Lindon - but Gil-Galad missed the humor.

“As it happens, yes.”

Cirdan set his cup down suddenly. “What do you mean, _yes_?”

“I mean that _yes_ , one of the Sons of Feanor is vexing me.”

“Either you are being haunted or-” Cirdan caught himself and Gil-Galad could see as the puzzle pieces fell together in his mind. Elrond’s worry, the house of secrets, his promises of explanations. There was only one thing it could all add up to, in retrospect. “No,” he said breathlessly.

“Yes.” Gil-Galad took a long drink from his tea, sorely wishing it was alcohol. “Maglor Feanorian is in his house.”

For a long time, Cirdan was silent. Then he said, “my word, he has more guts than I’d given him credit for.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“What else do you want me to say?” Cirdan frowned.

“He has a Feanorian in his house!”

“I am aware,” Cirdan looked down at his tea, swirling it around his cup. “Have we written any laws against that?” he asked.

“Have. We. Written. Any. Laws.” Gil-Galad repeated, having no idea where the shipwright was going with his thoughts.

“I don’t believe we have,” Cirdan continued. He frowned, “No, I would recall if we had specifically outlawed banning feeding Feanorians.”

“He’s not just feeding him, he’s living in his house!”

“And he is perfectly within his rights to do so, as I said, we have not made Maglor illegal.”

“Whether Maglor is illegal or not is beside the point. He is living in Elrond’s house!”

“Well, what do you want to do?” Cirdan asked, raising his voice to catch Gil-Galad’s attention. “Throw him out? You could outlaw him, if that is what you want, you are the king as it happens.”

“And put Elrond in jail!?”

“Is that what you want?”

“No it isn’t what I want!” he was shouting now, although he couldn’t quite recall when he’d raised his voice.

“Good,” Cirdan said calmly. “I would have had a hard time stomaching it.”

“You are doing nothing to help me, do you know that?”

“You are the king, Erenion, not me.”

Gil-Galad glared at him, slumping back in his chair. “I do not enjoy it, not at times like these.”

“We all must do things we do not enjoy.” They were silent for a time, then Cirdan asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do about it? You’ve made it clear that I am the one in the wrong.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. As you said, Elrond has not broken any laws. Feeding Maglor Feanorian is not illegal.”

“Legally, yes, Elrond is in the right. Morally?” Cirdan tilted his head, looking at his friend thoughtfully. “Morally he may be in the wrong.”

“Morally he is a healer who has an injured patient. Maglor cannot walk.” Gil-Galad poured himself another cup of tea, thought better of it, and went to fetch the wine. “Morally he is quite in the right.”

“Bring me a glass.” Cirdan watched him. “Morally I believe it would have been best to inform you, not as his king, but as his friend. It is clear he has gone to lengths to hide this, which means he must have known that you ought to know.”

“Logistically he should have told me as well. I may be able to stomach Maglor, but what about my people? We have survivors of Doriath and Sirion here.”

“Logistically Maglor Feanorian is a nightmare, but only if he is discovered.” 

“Oh Valar.” Gil-Galad paused, holding the wine bottle aloft as his mind processed his thoughts.

“Erenion.” Cirdan had never approved of swearing. 

“What if Eregion finds out?”

“Damn.” The Shipwright took the wine glass from Gil-Galad and sipped it. “That would, logistically, be a problem. Possibly a legal problem as well, I am not certain if they have outlawed Maglor or not.”

“Logistically it would be a nightmare. Morally-”

“Forget morals and legalities, it would be a disaster.” Cirdan suddenly grinned, as though the importance of the situation was lost on him. “Do you think Celebrimbor would punch Maglor or hug him?” 

“You are worried about Celebrimbor?” Gil-Galad shook his head. “Who do you think would be more furious: Celeborn or Galadriel?”

“In truth, neither so long as they can pretend he does not exist.” Another soft laugh. “Although, it would not surprise me to learn that the Lady is fully aware of what is vexing us, and enjoying every moment of our confusion.”

Admittedly, that sounded like his cousin. Gil-Galad sunk into his chair and took a large gulp of wine. “What are we ever going to do?”

Cirdan lifted his glass. “Drink, apparently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pia Ilmanya - little star of mine


	5. Chapter 5

He could not sleep. Everytime he tried, his mind provided him with images of Gil-Galad, none of which were good. Elrond sighed, pushing himself out of bed and padding down the hall.

He meant to creep past where Maglor was sleeping on the couch, since it was too difficult to get him up the stairs to either of the bedrooms, but it seemed Maglor had heard him anyway.

“Pia Ilmanya?” Elrond turned and was startled to see Maglor sitting up.

“You should be sleeping,” he scolded.

“As should you,” his foster father reminded him. Maglor looked no worse for the wear, considering the emergency procedure he had undergone mere hours before.

“I could not sleep,” Elrond said after a moment, “I was going to get a glass of water.”

Maglor tilted his head and looked at him thoughtfully, and Elrond wondered how long it was until he saw through all the lies that were so quickly breaking (it was a miracle he hadn’t figured anything out already, that Gil-Galad hadn’t simply told him he wasn’t meant to be in Lindon and to get out). “You could bring me a glass,” the minstrel offered.

Elrond was more than happy to oblige. Once he had both glasses of water, he tucked himself beside Maglor, letting his foster father dote and fuss over the blankets, wrapping them around them both.

“There is something you are not telling me,” Maglor said, leaning against Elrond. “Something that is causing you no small amount of worry.”

“I only wish for you to heal quickly.”

“I wish the same,” Maglor said softly. “I am sorry-”

“Don’t.” Elrond didn’t want to hear Maglor apologize about reinjuring his leg. He didn’t think he could handle it. “Please.”

Maglor frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly at Elrond. “Of course,” he had muttered, sipping from his water with a suspicious look. Elrond knew he couldn’t keep lying to Maglor forever - that he shouldn’t have told the lie in the first place - but he didn’t know what else to do. So instead he leaned against Maglor and tried to sleep.

Maglor drifted off to sleep soon after, but Elrond remained awake, finding it too difficult not to fall into another panic.

* * *

_“And throw Elrond in jail!?”_

_“Is that what you want?”_

Gil-Galad glared at the ceiling, trying to not continually repeat his conversation with Cirdan in his head. Of course he didn’t want to put Elrond in jail.

No.

Elrond was his friend, even if he had betrayed his king’s trust. He wasn’t about to throw the poor man in jail. After all, he hadn’t technically broken any laws. Gil-Galad had double checked the laws, but he hadn’t found anything that seemed to apply to the situation.

That was a good thing because it meant he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. It was also a bad thing because it meant that he had to decide what to do for himself. He laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling until morning came and a servant came to wake him. The man seemed startled to see that Gil-Galad was already awake, but was easily sent from the room.

If only all his problems could be sent away that easily.

Elrond wasn’t at breakfast, but Gil-Galad decided he wasn’t in the mood to wait (he couldn’t handle dragging out the suspense any longer) so he set off toward the half elf’s house.

They met halfway.

To his credit, Elrond seemed startled to see him and quickly bowed his head, murmuring some sort of official, courtly greeting (Gil-Galad wasn’t paying attention, he hated courtly greetings even when they came from his oldest friend (in fact, coming from Elrond, it was worse)).

“I was starting to fear you weren’t coming.”

“Apologies, I was tending his knee.” Something about the expression on Elrond's face worried him, but Gil-Galad didn't ask.

They stood and stared at each other, both at a loss for words. Finally, Gil-Galad turned. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation in public.”

“I agree,” Elrond said quickly.

They walked back to the palace in uncomfortable silence, neither knowing quite what to say.

Gil-Galad lead them both into his sitting room, where a fire waited (and tea, which he suspected Cirdan must have left, knowing what was coming).

“Please don’t make him leave,” Elrond said as soon as the door shut. Judging by the strained look on his face, it was all he cared about. “As soon as he’s healed he will leave - we’ll both leave if that’s what you wish - but to send him out now would be a death sentence.”

“Both leave?” Gil-Galad spluttered.

Elrond winced. “If that is what you wish. I can leave the palace now and you won’t see me again, but please let us remain until-”

“Elrond?” Gil-Galad interrupted. “Do be quiet.” The Peredhel fell silent, looking everywhere but at Gil-Galad’s face. “There is one thing I want to make clear: I do not want you to leave.” He hadn’t yet decided about Maglor, but Elrond he was certain about.

The Peredhel almost seemed startled, but he relaxed. “Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Gil-Galad asked, slumping into his favorite chair.

“Kanofinwe-”

“I don’t give a damn about Kanofinwe!” he shouted, startling both himself and Elrond. “I want to know why you never told me!”

Elrond had nothing to say, looking away uneasily. He began to walk in short bursts, pacing back and forth between Gil-Galad and the Elrond's usual chair.

“I thought we were friends, Elrond,” Gil-Galad said softly. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” he whispered, his voice choked, “but Erenion, he was almost _dead_. I- I couldn’t risk it.”

“Risk what?”

“You saying no.”

Gil-Galad sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sit down, Elrond, your pacing is making me nervous.” It wasn’t the only thing making him nervous of course, but it was part of it.

Elrond sat quickly, in his usual chair across from Gil-Galad, and for a moment it seemed like they were just having one of their usual chats. But then Elrond said, “Shall I start at the beginning?” and the illusion was shattered.

“Yes, please do.”

Elrond sighed. “I found him by accident about a month ago,” he said.

“When you first bought the house,” Gil-Galad supplied.

Elrond looked at him. “Do you want me to tell the story or not?” he asked flatly. It was so like Elrond to scold him like that, that in any other situation, Gil-Galad would have laughed. But instead, he nodded and went quiet. “Yes, that’s when I bought the house. First I thought I could keep him outside the city, but he was so weak. I don’t know how long his knee was injured before I found him - I doubt he knows - but he was near death.”

“He told me he injured his knee in a fall-” Gil-Galad didn’t tell Elrond what Maglor had told him, about the mortals attacking him, that lie was between Elrond and Maglor, not Elrond and Gil-Galad- “but when I found him it was clear he’d been unable to care for himself. He was near delirious, starving and dehydrated, and there was an infection in his knee.” The pain in Elrond’s face as he described Maglor’s condition spoke volumes, and Gil-Galad’s heart twisted uncomfortably. 

“I thought at first that he could stay in a cave outside the city, but it was too difficult getting in and out without anyone noticing and he was so ill. So when I passed the house on my way to check on him, I knew what I had to do.”

“I snuck him in at night, although, I know the guards - they’re good friends - and I probably could have brought in an orc and they wouldn’t have questioned it.”

Gil-Galad snorted and Elrond stopped as though offended. “My apologies, I am merely imagining you trying to heal an injured orc.”

A soft smile parted Elrond’s lips. “I caught an injured bear cub once, you know.” Gil-Galad raised an eyebrow and Elrond continued, “It had a broken paw, I thought to heal it, but Maitimo killed it after it nearly mauled me and we had it for supper. I got a paddling for my foolishness from Timo, but Kano seemed to understand.” His face fell and he sounded rather wistful as he said, “I liked that cub.”

As usual, Gil-Galad didn’t know how to respond to Elrond’s stories about his childhood. Thankfully, Elrond didn’t leave him the chance, saying, “But as I was saying, I snuck him inside the city at night about a month ago. I didn’t even have any furniture at the time, I just borrowed a cot from the barracks.” He had noticed Elrond’s disappearances but hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. They’d figured he was just moving things into his house or shopping for furniture.

“Somehow it was… easier at first, when he slept most of the time. Every time I went to him, I was almost expecting him to be dead, but there was nothing more I could have done. He just needed time. He was either going to live or he wasn't. That was how I managed to continue staying at the palace, but then he started to be more lucid and I moved in with him. I’ve barely slept in a month, but I suppose it’s only now catching up with me.”

“It certainly is catching up with you.”

“I didn’t sleep at all last night. We were…. Talking and he tried to follow me. When he stood he pulled out some of the stitches in his knee.” Elrond’s voice softened and he said, “Erenion if he leaves the city now he will die.”

“I don’t wish for anyone to die, Elrond.” He meant it, despite everything, he was more certain than ever that Maglor’s death was the last thing he wanted.

Elrond visibly relaxed, murmuring soft thank yous.

“But I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“I-” Elrond sighed and started over, “I thought you would allow it, but you must understand it was a risk I couldn’t take. If you had said no-”

“I wouldn’t have. Not if you had merely asked.”

“If you had said no he would have _died_.” Elrond ran his fingers through his hair in evident distress. “I kept meaning to tell you, once I’d brought him into the city, but every time I was too frightened. And then more time passed and it got worse and worse and eventually, I told myself I could just heal him and sneak him out.”

“And lie to him about it as well?”

Elrond groaned. “I never claimed it was a good plan.”

They lapsed into silence after that, and Gil-Galad poured them both a drink from the teapot that had been left for them. “Will his knee heal?” Gil-Galad asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“I mean, is he reasonably going to be able to live without you?” It was a thought that had been bouncing in the back of Gil-Galad’s head ever since he had seen Maglor. From the way Elrond was acting and from the sketch of the injury he had seen on his desk, he knew it wasn’t good.

Elrond seemed hesitant to answer, but finally, he said, “I- I think so. In time, he should be well.”

“Obviously I would prefer not to have a kinslayer here - not for my own sake, but for everyone else’s - but if he does not heal, we won’t just throw him out. I don’t promise he can stay here indefinitely, but I won’t sentence him to death. We will think of something.”

Elrond seemed startled, but a smile split his face. “Truly?”

“On one condition,” Gil-Galad said finally.

“Name it.”

“You have to tell him the truth.”

Elrond suddenly looked as though he wasn’t so certain it was all worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I wanna write a fic about the bear cub.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally get Maglor’s POV. Be warned, he’s slightly mentally unstable.

He had a hard time complaining about the pain in his knee when it distracted him from his other constant pain: the one in his hand.

At least, so long as he was focused on the throbbing pain in his leg, he wasn’t focused on the pain brought about by his own folly. Not that Elrond would approve of that line of thought, the half-elf would never approve if he knew Maglor often found himself poking at his injury, sending a flare of pain through his leg.

It was a soothing balm to the constant ache in his hand, and if Elrond knew about it, he figured the healer would never leave him. Either that or give him more of the pain killers (not that they helped his burn, even when he was drugged out of all rationality, he still felt his hand).

One thing he could complain about (at least to himself) was the boredom. Elrond had brought him plenty of books once he had begun to awaken, but they’d all been Elrond’s kind of books. Histories, scientific studies, and a few books of poetry (no doubt meant to cater to Maglor’s love of music). History he had no interest in, as he’d written a fair amount of it himself, he’d never cared to study sciences, and the poetry was simply horrid, worse so when it included musical notes alongside it.

The last time he’d tried to read one of the music books, he’d ended up throwing it at the wall in sheer frustration. One of the history books he had had to set aside after it had referred to Celegorm as a bloodthirsty monster (he’d hidden it under the couch, but after he’d had dreams of it coming to life, turning into the faces of those he’d killed, he’d thrown it into the fire in a panic and hoped Elrond didn’t ask where it went). The scientific books he hadn’t bothered to open.

So Maglor spent most of his days sleeping or staring at the wall.

But even that was not easy, as whatever it was that Elrond had put him on for the pain and infection clouded his mind whether he was awake or not. Oftentimes when he woke from a nap he had no idea where he was, on more than one occasion he’d panicked and ended up on the floor before remembering that he was safe.

But when Elrond got home he would smile, hold up the nearest book, and lie and say he’d greatly enjoyed it.

He’d spent most of the day after reinjuring his knee asleep, no doubt still under the influence of what Elrond had given him, so he didn’t wake up when someone knocked on the door.

In fact, he didn’t wake at all until he heard the door open and a voice call out, “Are you in here, Kanofinwe?”

> _“Are you in here, Kanofinwe?”_
> 
> _Maglor looked up from his desk, parchment splayed across it’s surface, and said, “I am.”_
> 
> _Cirdan stepped into the room, surveying it curiously. He bowed, although it was not as low as most (not that Maglor cared, if he was never bowed to again he would be far happier). “Your settlement has quite improved from the last time I visited.”_
> 
> _Maglor couldn’t take any credit for that. Even as the regent king (he refused to be crowned properly not when he didn’t know if his brother was dead), he barely had a hand in the building. “It is my brother Curufinwe you should be giving your compliments to.”_

“Kanofinwe.”

“Makalaure.”

“Maglor.”

Someone snapped their fingers in front of him and he lurched. “Cirdan,” he said, blinking. “Well met.”

Cirdan had a frown on his face, and Maglor wondered exactly how long he had been out of it (or what he might have said) but the shipwright didn’t mention it. He surveyed Maglor intensely, then remarked, “You look terrible.”

“Yes.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t think of much of anything at the moment, his mind still struggling to remember when and where he was.

_Elrond’s house. Lindon. Second age._ He smiled. “I am quite fortunate to have another visitor so soon.” His hand ran over his knee, using the pain to focus his thoughts. _Lindon. Elrond. Second Age._

Cirdan drug a chair across the floor, leaving it beside Maglor’s couch and sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “I would have visited sooner, but… circumstances intervened.”

“Elrond is rather protective.”

“Hmm.”

Maglor frowned. He didn’t think Cirdan was there to cause trouble. They’d been almost friends once, when he’d been the regent king, but they’d fallen out of contact long before the second and third kinslayings. “May I help you?” he asked finally.

“The palace is…. Tense at the moment,” he said after a moment, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “I wished for some fresh air.”

“You should see the garden,” Maglor nodded his head toward the door behind him. “Elrond says it is quite lovely and I can hear the birds from in here.” He frowned as Cirdan’s words caught up with his mind. “Is there something the matter in the palace?”

“No,” Cirdan assured him. He stood quickly. “Tea?”

Maglor almost couldn’t keep up with the sudden change in the conversation, his mind following along sluggishly. “Everyone seems determined to feed me at the recent time,” he remarked.

Cirdan took that as a yes, and strode off toward the kitchen. He came back a moment later and hung the kettle over the fire. “Have you seen yourself?” he asked.

“Myself?”

“Your reflection, Maglor. Have you seen it?”

“No. Do I have something in my teeth?”

“Not that I’ve noticed, but you look like a wraith.” Cirdan pulled a knife from his belt, and Maglor flinched instinctively. But the shipwright only held it out so that he could see his reflection in the polished metal.

He had to agree. The creature blinking back at him was not an elf. Elrond had told him he was underweight, but he’d failed to mention how thin he was or that his skin was nearly translucent and the bruises under his eyes.

Maglor found himself at a loss for words.

Cirdan put away his knife, sitting back in the chair he’d claimed. “That,” he said, “is why everyone keeps making you tea. I would have offered food, but your kitchen seems rather bare.”

“Elrond usually brings something,” Maglor said, glancing toward the door. “He’s too busy for cooking.” He felt horrible about that, of course. Elrond shouldn’t be working himself as hard as he was, but the half-elf always insisted it was no trouble.

“He always overworks himself, that is nothing new.” Cirdan glanced back at Maglor, then added, “But I imagine he won’t be so overworked now.”

“Why? Has something happened?”

The shipwright shook his head. “No. Of course not.”

Maglor rubbed at his knee, letting the pain focus his thoughts. Cirdan watched with a disapproving look on his face, but he said nothing. Somehow, Maglor suspected that he would be hearing about it from Elrond later.

* * *

“He was looking for me,” Elrond said softly, swirling his drink in his cup.

Gil-Galad raised an eyebrow.

“When I found him. He was delirious, as I said, but he kept saying he was looking for me. He didn’t seem to realize he had found me.” He sighed, clearly distressed.

“He didn’t even recognize you?”

Elrond shook his head and his voice was so quiet that Gil-Galad almost didn’t understand him, “He kept saying he needed to see his son one last time before he died.”

Oh. _Oh_. Gil-Galad couldn’t think of anything to say in response to that. It was just too complicated. “You would claim him as your father then?” He’d always suspected it - whenever people praised Earendil, Elrond’s smile seemed forced, his eyes darting and looking for an escape - but he’d never asked. There was no easy way to ask, _‘so which do you prefer? The man that left you or the man who tried to kill you?’_

Elrond seemed rather offended by the question, but if anything it was because he clearly thought the answer should be obvious. “Of course. My brother and I both did.” Then, no doubt bolded by Gil-Galad’s questioning, he asked, “Do you consider Fingon to be your father?”

“If he were not my father I would not be king,” Gil-Galad replied evasively, unable to help glancing at Cirdan’s empty chair. “He sent me to Cirdan for my own good.”

“I meant no offense,” Elrond said softly.

“I took none.”

They lapsed back into an odd silence, both of them focusing on the tea they were drinking.

Finally, Elrond said, “I suppose I should… explain things to Kano.”

“I will walk with you.” Gil-Galad couldn’t decide if he simply wanted to keep Elrond company, or if he was determined to make sure Elrond kept his promise and spoke to Maglor. Either way, he couldn’t imagine himself sitting in the stuffy room by himself anymore, not if he had any control over it. 

"I- thank you."

It was always pleasant to walk through Lindon, as Gil-Galad was quite proud of the city. Unfortunately, being who he was, their walk through the city was slow going as many of the residents wanted to speak with him. Elrond didn't complain about the delay (Gil-Galad had a feeling he was glad of it) and he happily spoke with those that approached them. 

 

But eventually they did get to Elrond's house and the half-elf pushed open the door without bothering to knock. Then he stopped short.

Maglor was perched on his usual spot on the couch, once again holding a cup of tea that Elrond had not given him and that he was incapable of making himself. This time, however, the source of the tea was sitting across from him. 

“Ah, there you are,” Cirdan said cheerfully, raising his cup to them. Gil-Galad wished he could say he was surprised. 


End file.
